


Hurt so Good

by wishesgoverybad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Dean Winchester, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Dean Winchester, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:31:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishesgoverybad/pseuds/wishesgoverybad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter with a supernatural creature leaves Dean worse for wear and Sam and Castiel looking for answers.</p>
<p>This is set in Season 4 but will have spoilers through Season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly I wrote this because it seemed like there was a dearth of well written Hurt/Comfort fics out there. So I came up with a plot that would kick Dean's ass. This is a work in progress and, not to sound too needy, but I'll probably write faster if I know people like it.
> 
> I've tried to edit this and I have a lovely editor, but if you find any errors, let me know and I'll do my best to correct them.

Sometimes, Dean feels most at home on a hunt, sleeping in his car or lying on his belly in the mud waiting for the right moment to make his move.  The irony isn’t lost on him, that he can find a type of peace while preparing to kill, but the rules of survival are simple and the best hunts are about survival. And, for some reason, Dean excels at survival, even when he’d rather not. So, it doesn’t matter that hunting causes, or at least magnifies essentially every complication in his life, it can still be a refuge. It still feel like home.

His current muddy ditch, a quagmire of its own, cold and wet and a hundred yards from some junk cars parked outside a house with peeling paint and moss on the roof is uncomfortable and unguarded enough for him to spend most of his mental energy staying still and out of sight.  Like this he doesn’t have to think about what the hell is going on with Sam or, worse, what the hell is going on with him.  Covered in mud in a ditch in the middle of nowhere actually seems like the best place to be, given his options.

This isn’t strictly a solo hunt.  They’re tracking a very powerful Shaman who seems to suck energy from various locals.  Sam is casting some sort of spell to decloak the guy, but the spell needed to be done at the center of the Shaman’s power, which in this case is the midpoint between two craggy mountains, 15 miles southeastish.  Dean, meanwhile, waits for the spell to work so he can charge into Shaman-central and do what he does best.   So, for the moment he’s alone.  Cold, wet, and a little concerned that he might not actually have any dry clothing that isn’t covered in blood and mud back at the hotel, but enjoying the solitude.   

The wind whispers coldly against his ears, night quiet but for the patter of rain on the empty shells of the cars in the yard.  He shivers and absently tugs at his collar, trying to cover his neck when he feels the warmth.  It starts on his calves, and works its way up, and it feels so good in the center of all the cold and filth that his muscles go loose before he thinks to fight it.  Then he remembers that anything that feels this good must be very, very bad.

He pushes himself back, but falls woodenly to his side.  He sees the Shaman now, wreathed in green flame, seeming to float above the mud.  Dean tries to pull his gun, tries to find the thrice-blessed obsidian dagger that is supposed to end this guy’s murder spree, but from the grin parrying across the Shaman’s face, they both know he’s helpless.  The flames surround Dean.  They lick his skin and push into his heart and Dean goes limp.  Dying wasn’t so bad last time, he tells himself, pulse racing.  And if he ends up in Hell, like he probably should, at least he can go back to feeling nothing at all.

The green loses focus and Dean welcomes the darkness. But as the world fades away, he swears he hears a long-lost voice humming a lullaby.  

He swears he feels a gentle hand sweep over his cheek when he turns to face the nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes to the taste of blood in his mouth and hands twisting the front of his jacket.  He briefly wonders if he should find it depressing that it isn’t the first time he’s woken up like this, or grateful because he knows what to expect.  He braces for a blow as he cracks open an eye, but it’s just Sam grabbing at him with an urgency Dean can’t muster when thinking of his own demise.  

“Woah, woah!” Dean croaks when it looks like Sam is about to smack him back into consciousness, “What the hell, dude?”

Sam’s face softens and Dean catches a glimpse of what might have been terror in his eyes.  Even if it weren’t an expression he knows he wears himself most days, he’d know it because he’s seen it before.  He saw it when Sam watched helplessly as Dean got torn apart by that Hellhound.  He’ll see it again, in the instant before his baby brother resolves to says yes to Lucifer, and he’ll see it again, and again, and again.

“What the hell, dude?” He repeated, partly because of that look and partly because really, what the hell?

“I thought you were dead, man,” Sam’s grip abruptly changes to gather Dean into a hug, violent in its intensity.  

“Almost,” Dean groans as he bobs forward, clutching ribs.

“What happened?” Sam asks, rough hands checking Dean for broken bones and cuts that won’t stop bleeding.

“I don’t know,” Dean winces at the effort of remembering.  He catches the echo of a song winding through memories he can’t place, but then it’s gone.  His head aches and his side burns and he recalls nothing but blankness and iron on his tongue. “But I think I cracked a rib or two.”  

“That’s not all,” Sam mumbles pressing Dean’s shoulder so he cries out.

“Shit,” Dean gasps.

“What the hell happened?” Sam demands, his voice a low growl, so quiet it’s almost a whisper and Dean wonders if this is all Sam can manage without yelling.  It’s been this way since he got back, Sam’s rage bubbling under a lid of puppy dog eyes and well-conditioned hair.  Sometimes he’s got it locked down pretty well, but it’s Dean’s job to spot anger, even when it’s hidden.  It’s his job to see it and step in front of it for Sam.  It has been his job for a long time.

“Dude, I don’t remember,” Dean snaps.

Sam jaw juts out, and he twists his mouth into something between a scowl and a frown.  Dean recognizes this as the face Sam makes when Dean is being cagey and Sam wants him to share and care. Dean knows he deserves this look most of the time, but tonight he’s not evading, he’s simply blank.  Everything hurts and he just wants a fifth of whiskey and some of the pills he keeps hidden behind a panel in the Impala.  He doesn’t want to answer twenty questions.  He doesn’t want to wonder about the flashes of anger and fear.  He doesn’t even want to look at the building darkness behind his brother’s eyes.  He just wants to curl up and stop feeling anything at all.

Sam looks like he’s gathering momentum to say something, but Dean heaves to the side, spitting out a mouthful of blood.  Sam sighs, it’s a long exhalation like he’s slowly deflating, and then Dean feels large hands steady him and shepard him into the backseat of the Impala.  Dean meets his eyes and hopes he makes grateful face before he crumples into a heap and falls asleep to the lullaby of his baby’s purr.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean expects to wake to fluorescent lights and the smell of bleach that every hospital seems to have, but he’s in a dark room when he opens his eyes.  It takes him several minutes to figure out they’re in a motel room. Carrying a full grown man is not a fun job, especially if you’re trying to be gentle as he knows Sam was. He regrets Sam went through the trouble.  He regrets a lot of things.

Sam sits at a too small table with a too dim lamp and his laptop.  The theme of this motel room seems to be something akin to a wild-center diorama and Dean frowns at the poorly stuffed taxidermy on a dresser they won’t use.

“Is that a weasel?” Dean asks, voice hoarse.  He’s shirtless so he can see the damage, a path of purple bruising wanders down his torso to a bandage Sam must have made from the hotel sheets.  His ribs are wrapped, his shoulder in a makeshift sling, perhaps in an honest-to-god pillowcase, not that he feels better for Sam’s attention.  So it goes on the road.  Dean’s spent enough time in the hospital to appreciate skipping out on a trip if they can manage it.  And frankly, any time he doesn’t have to use duct tape to stop the bleeding seems like a win to him.  He’s survived a lot worse without clean bandages or whiskey to disinfect his wounds.

Sam looks up and crinkles his forehead, “Uh, a fisher, I think.”

“Freaking know-it-all,” Dean mumbles as he gracelessly flops into a sitting position, wincing at the strain on his shoulder and ribs.  Sam furrows his brow in concern so Dean nods toward the laptop and clears his throat, “What’s the story?”

Sam puffs out a sigh, and Dean can see wisps of his hair flutter in response, “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with anymore, but whatever it is, I think it’s moved on.”

Sam starts into some sort of explanation and Dean appreciates the tone.  Sam teases Dean, gets irritated with him, but he never treats him like he’s stupid.  Or at least he never says it to his face, which is all Dean hopes for and more than he’s gotten from most people.  He can tell just from Sam’s measured cadence and some punctuated hand motions that Sam is taking his time laying out his reasoning.  He methodically points to some mysterious blotches on what might be a map glowing on the computer screen and Dean tries to follow whatever the hell it is his brother is yammering on about, but he can’t.  His eyes are blurry they sting when he opens them, but burn when he closes them and everything Sam says seems to be coming from far away.  He scrapes his good hand over his face and clears his throat again.  He thinks Sam must be talking about how he tracked the Shaman and how important it is they get on the road.  And is he talking about Lilith?  Maybe Dean’s hallucinating, but since he got back Lilith seems to be Sam’s bottom line for just about everything.

“...You good for the drive?” Sam asks, the words cutting through whatever astral plane Dean’s been floating on for most of the conversation.

Dean clears his throat again and glances toward the door.  It seems to recede into the distance but he stands up with a grunt, “I’m fine.  Let’s roll.”

 

Dean knows he’s in trouble when the growl of the Impala’s engine starts to get on his nerves.  He can’t drive, so he leans against the passenger’s side with his head on the window and tries not to groan too audibly every time Sam brings her over a bump or pothole and Dean’s head thwacks the glass.  When the road stretches out smoothly before them, Dean rolls his forehead along the window and enjoys the coolness against his skin.  He’s used to Sam shooting him various looks of exasperation and pity, so he’s not bothered when Sam increases the frequency of his doe eyes.  Even when throat clearing progresses to a series of odd, muted coughs, staccato and useless because simply breathing hurts his ribs, Dean’s not worried.   It’s not even when he has to turn up the heat because he can’t stop shivering that he really gets concerned. It’s only when Baby’s rumble feels like it might rattle his head off his neck, he knows he’s going to be down for the count.  

“You good?” Sam asks as if he can read his mind.

“I’m fine,” Dean manages to croak.

Sam gives him a sideways glare of disbelief and Dean puts on his best innocent face but then his body betrays him and he sneezes.  Dean sees the pain in his ribs as a red and black cloud on the edge of his vision.

“Shit,” he gasps what must be minutes later, because his vision’s cleared and all that’s left is the lightning in his side.  “Shit.  Shit. Shit.”  He tries to pound the dash for emphasis, but it seems more like he’s just grasping for something to hold on to.

“Fine?” Sam raises an eyebrow.

Dean ignores him in favor of cursing again.

 

Half an hour later, they drive by a motel, letters missing from the neon sign and Sam tosses Dean a look.  He clears his own throat purposefully and open and closes his mouth, “You good?”

Dean nods because he can’t trust his voice and because that’s what he’s always done.  No one cares that he’s broken.

Sam surveys him, jaw working almost imperceptibly.  Dean can see the bob of his Adam’s apple as his brother starts to say one thing, then another.  Instead he reaches into the back seat and grabs a stiff wool blanket with a long arm.  He tosses it gently to Dean with a half-smile and a scoff.

They drive on.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you a nice long chapter because I'm going to have a busy week and not much time to write, so chances are next week won't be so impressive.

They check into a motel called the “Dew Drop Inn”, maybe the fifteenth one they’ve stayed in.  Dean usually laughs at the name, but right now he just wants to drag himself into the room, close the curtains and sink into a mattress, so he doesn’t even crack a smile.  The drive did not improve the ache in his shoulder or side but he’d managed to drift into something that resembled sleep, only to wake up with a sandpaper throat and streaming nose.  He can’t even bring himself to protest when Sam gently shoves him away from the Impala and toward the motel door.  Part of him hates it when Sam coddles him--it feels wrong--like the world flipped when he wasn’t looking, but mostly he just wants that lumpy mattress and the feel of sheets tucked harshly into mitred corners, so he fumbles toward the door and tries not think of Sam shouldering the weight of all their stuff.

This hotel room smells like the burn of a broken vacuum, stench strong enough to cut through Dean’s congestion.  He can’t bring himself to care, though, because someone cleaned the room well and the tightly made beds look inviting.  He drops onto the bed closest to the door, and awkwardly works at his laces with one hand, but he hasn’t made much progress by the time Sam opens the door.  Sam tosses the duffels in the corner.  He inhales the way he does when he thinks he’ll have to say several things in one breath before Dean flips him off and sulks away. Dean groans and tips his head back so he can stare at the stucco ceiling, because he knows this speech will be about him.

Instead of a speech Sam just sighs through his nose and says, “You’re in no condition to hunt.”

Dean rolls his head to the side, relishing the pull of pain he feels in his shoulder.  It grounds him because the concern in Sam’s voice has an undercurrent, one Dean won’t place until they’re both standing so close to the edge Dean loses track of who falls first.  But for now he simply nods, feels a slight sting when he realizes Sam’s concern is just as much for the hunt and as for him, and then pushes that sting down into his stomach, a pit of his own.

“We should call Cas,” Sam says, voice even and logical and Dean runs a hand over his aching face with a sigh.  Dean’s admitted enough weakness to Castiel, and seen enough uncertainty in blue eyes and furrowed brows to know that for all his grace and power, Castiel feels helpless when it comes to Dean and his mission.  Maybe just as helpless as Dean feels.

“He’s not always helpful,” Dean replies.

“Dean, if we catch this guy, he might lead us to Lilith,” Sam pushes and Dean hears an unspoken rebuke--Dean’s holding them back, more liability than asset.

Dean drops his shoulders in assent and clears his throat.  Dean won’t feel comfortable praying for a long time to come, and presently he interprets prayer as something formal and scripted.  He’ll accept Castiel as family before he accepts prayer, before he realizes it’s the intention behind the words rather than the words themselves that call Castiel to him.  It’s a lesson that will take longer for him to learn because he will plead for him when they are in Purgatory with no reply.  He will plead and beg for Castiel to find him and he won’t know that Castiel covers his ears and hides his face during these prayers, because he can’t stand the thought of Dean alone.  Dean will just know that Cas’ name turns to vapor that curls into the air and when it finally disappear he will still be alone.

“Cas,” Dean starts, voice ragged, “We--I--could use some help.”

The whoosh of Castiel’s wings stirs the air and the small breeze floats across the skin of Dean’s face.  Dean leans into it, because he’s hot and cold at the same time, and at least this is something different.  

“Hello, Dean.  Sam.” Castiel acknowledges them both with a nod.

Castiel’s gaze rakes down Dean’s body and Dean curls inward.  Castiel has a way seeing past and through and Dean is too tired to shrug it off, too tired to pretend he’s not particularly tender right now, so he tightens physically and hopes it’s enough.

“You are not well,” Castiel observes.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the understatement, because Castiel could have said this at any point since he’s known Dean and it would be true, broken bones and mucus notwithstanding.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean snarls.  On a scale of 1 to Hell, this doesn’t even come close to the worst he’s dealt with, even if most of his concentration is on how his body feels--heavy and stiff and wrecked.  Dean learned in Hell that you can use pain to your advantage, though.  He learned you can use it to touch all the things worth hurting for.  His eyes slip closed and he tumbles after the thought.  He tries not to think of the pit.  He tries not to think of Alastair.   He tries not to think of how he used the strength of his own resistance to break down that of others. He won’t think of these things. Instead, thinks of a floppy haired boy who used to trust him.

He tunes back into a conversation between Sam and Castiel, although Sam is doing most of the talking.  His brother’s hands innumerate the reasons Castiel should help them, but Castiel stares past Sam and into Dean.  Dean wishes he could fall into that look, let Castiel root around his defenses, but he knows what Castiel will ultimately find, he knows he has a darkness not easily unseen.

Sam makes some case about doing “research” and how “sources” say the Shaman will lead them to Lilith.  Dean knows for damn sure that “sources” means Ruby, and he wants to call Sam out on his bullshit, but he only sputters and coughs, bracing his ribs and shaking his head at the crackling in his lungs.

“Enough, Sam,” Castiel snips, his words sharp, but not unfriendly. He suddenly stands very close to Dean, their legs almost brushing.  He touches a finger to his temple concentrating. and then exhales with what might be relief. “I haven’t been ordered against healing him.” Sam and Castiel exchange a look, a silent conversation that could be an apology.  Dean wonders what he missed, but his eyes are still tearing and he’s still doubled over, and he’s not sure he really wants to know anyway.

“I’ll assist you,” Castiel says, now facing Dean, as if he’s clarifying some misunderstanding, and then his hand, pale and gentle reaches outward.

Dean flinches when Castiel taps him on the forehead and wants to believe the jolt he feels comes from the dude’s mojo or whatever, but then he realizes everything still hurts and he’s just as wrecked as he was before.  

“I can’t,” Castiel says and his voice is caught somewhere between shock and anger and regret, so low Dean feels it rumble in his own chest.

“Can’t or won’t?” Sam presses in a way that makes Dean think they’ve had this conversation before.  Maybe this prompted Castiel’s unspoken apology.  Dean tries to hold onto the thought but he suddenly seems to float above the room, the world expanding and contracting.

Castiel quirks his head and gives Sam a glare that sends shivers down Dean’s spine, or maybe it’s just chills from the fever he undoubtedly has.  Sam shifts his weight like he’s about to step forward but then he looks down and Cas speaks.

“I’ve healed these wounds before,” Cas reaches out and runs his finger against Dean’s throbbing collarbone.  Dean squirms away from the touch but Castiel’s free hand grips Dean’s shoulder and holds him firmly.  If Dean weren’t feeling like a pile of bones and blood he would do more to get away, he thinks, but then he realizes that Castiel’s grip is preventing him from straining his bad shoulder, and even though the angel’s fingers dig into him, they keep him from further harm.  Castiel steadies him, holds him upright and says,  “I’ve rebuilt this already.” He states it as a fact eyes fixed on Dean’s face, hand keeping Dean from avoiding the question underneath.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks, face crumpled in concern.

Castiel sighs testily and Dean can’t help but smile.  Sam’s been the smartest person in the room since he was about ten, so he’s not used to getting things explained to him like he’s a moron, and Dean revels in it.

“When I raised your brother, I rebuilt his body,” Castiel starts slowly, he keeps his head slightly bowed, looking at Dean who isn’t looking anywhere but away. “I found his bones and knit him back together.  Got rid of old scars.”  The grip on Dean’s shoulder intensifies briefly before Castiel releases him and steps back.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve been rehymenated,” Dean says cocking his head so he can see them both, “So it’s like this is the first time I’ve broken my collarbone.”

“No,” Castiel replies curtly. “It is your first break.  Exactly the same break.  Broken in exactly the same spot in exactly the same way.  I recognize it,” Castiel raises his hand a second time and Dean wonders if he’ll touch him again, abruptly wants him to touch him again, but Castiel just sighs heavily and motions toward Dean’s ribs.  “I’m familiar with all these wounds.”

“So what? This is like my greatest hits?” Dean demands and stands.  It’s probably not the best idea, because it hurts, everything hurts,  but he can’t stay still, can’t give in to the helplessness that stirs coldly in his chest.

Sam makes a conciliatory gesture toward Dean.  He turns toward Cas with a calmness that seems out of place given his recent irritation, “Why would this be happening?”

Castiel turns his hands upward and makes a slightly exaggerated shrug before looking back toward Dean, “I’m not certain.”  He stares at Dean quizzically, the same way Sam looks at the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, like he knows the answer but can’t quite place it.  Like he enjoys the challenge.

Dean clears his throat and bobs his head, hoping Castiel will get the hint and finish his thought, or at least stop looking at him like that.  Dean can’t stand to be looked at like that.  That look that says he deserved to be saved.

Castiel blows out a tired sigh and looks back toward Sam, as if he’s forgotten Dean’s there after all that peering into his soul, “There’s a thread.  Some sort of spellwork.  It runs through all these maladies.  It’s like an energy conduit so the caster can feed off Dean.  That might explain why none of these injuries are life threatening.  But there’s something else.” He pauses, brows knit and mouth half open.  Dean recognizes this look as an apology and he closes his eyes and twists his head away.  Whatever Castiel has to say, Dean knows he won’t like it.

“The spell alone isn’t enough to keep me from healing him,” Castiel explains.  “It’s that Dean is resisting the healing on some level.”

“Wait, you think I don’t want to get better?” Dean demands and pushes forward toward Castiel, hoping he still looks intimidating as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.  Castiel’s satisfactorily eyes widen in surprise and Dean momentarily wonders if his bluster’s been effective, but then he feels the stab as his left leg gives out beneath him.  He lands heavily on the floor, tucks to avoid his injured shoulder, but still yelps at the pain in his ribs.  He gasps at the impact and carefully twists to see his wounded leg.  Blood oozes through his jeans and he touches it, tentative, marveling at its warmth.

“I remember this,” he mumbles so quietly Sam almost misses it.  “There was a bar fight and…” He trails off as he catches sight of Castiel, jaw clenched, mouth drawn, hands struggling with something outside Dean’s perception.

“I see it,” Castiel pants, his eyes suddenly dangerous.  He looks to Sam, then to Dean grits through bared teeth. “I can follow it.”

“Go!” Sam barks.  His hair has fallen over his face and he pushes it back, lassoing panic.  Dean wants to know what the hell is going on, but before he can ask the world starts to go fuzzy.  He doesn’t remember this much blood.  And then Castiel bears down on him, nostrils flared, lips pressed in a vicious line; the face he makes when smiting.  The world slows.  Lights flicker.  Dean belatedly registers that he’s the target.  From somewhere far away he contemplates if he’ll been smote or smitten.  Castiel slams into him with luminous, treacherous eyes, and it’s the last thing he sees.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did pair Dean with an Original Character in this chapter, and there's some smut. Nothing too graphic.
> 
> I'm really sorry for the delay in posting. I've been working a lot more lately so that's my excuse. I'm not really happy with this chapter, because I haven't had much time to edit it, but if I didn't post I'd never post, so here you are. I'll come back and polish it up later. Let me know if you find any mistakes and I will correct them and thanks for your patience, assuming anyone was actually waiting for me to post!

 

The memories return in flashes.  They consume Castiel and spit him out, only to consume him again.  The feel of a back against the wall.  The yellow reflection of sodium halide lamps off the eyes of that guy with the tragic beard.  His pupils wide from the darkness and too much to drink.  The taste of blood.  The gentle folds of a dark body warm to Dean’s hand.  The sound of a bottle breaking.  The stab of pain, once again familiar.  Long, dark fingers pulling thread through the gash.  The moment when Dean broke away, adrenaline pumping and wanted to kill them, but couldn’t, because Dean doesn’t kill people.  Not yet.  And finally, the curve of a full, naked bottom, warm against his hands..

Castiel feels Dean close--the real Dean.  Not the one Dean remembers himself to be, fuzzy and unformed.  Castiel reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder, feels the rub of leather beneath his vessel’s hands.  Dean is whole in his mind’s eye, no wounds or illness, and wearing his father’s discarded jacket.  Castiel takes a moment to appreciate this detail, and then pushes a small amount of Grace outward to center him, stabilize the blur.  The memory clicks imperceptibly into place and the flashes fall into order and still.

Dean nods to himself and pulls his head slightly backward, tucking his chin almost defensively.  He doesn’t look at Castiel, but Castiel looks at him, the small movements, the blankness on his face, and knows there are parts of this memory Dean wants to forget.  But Castiel cannot let him.  Castiel needs to find the thread.

They stand in a dark alley, the hair heavy and humid.  Air conditioners vibrate in windows above them, dripping condensation that pools in the troughs of cracked and undulating pavement.  Castiel follows Dean’s eyes to the scuffle.  It’s jerky, because of the adrenaline.  Parts of the altercation etched themselves into Dean’s brain, but parts disappeared from memory as soon as they’d happened.  Even Castiel can’t get them back.

“Cas?” Dean faces the angel, brow tense, jaw firm, “Don’t go wandering off in my head.”

Castiel has a sense of things, the boundary of this memory, Dean’s awareness of Sam in the hotel room, despite his being unconscious, the throbbing energy of the thread that will lead him out of here and to the source of the problem.  And Dean’s discomfort pulsing through his consciousness.

Castiel hardly ever knows what to do with Dean’s wall, his unwillingness to acknowledge his divine purpose, the anger that radiates from him.  Often he simply commands his obedience, but he needs Dean’s cooperation to be inside his head, and he’s come to understand the limitations of command.  And obedience.

“My being here makes you uncomfortable,” Castiel notes flatly, but with sincerity. “I have to follow this thread to its origin unless you’d prefer to continue being maimed.  I won’t deviate from my purpose.”

Dean parts his lips as if to speak but just licks them, as if he could somehow glue his mouth shut.  Castiel realizes Dean is facing what most people are only tangentially aware of--the way you relive a memory as you remember, while simultaneously judging it, and yourself, from your current position in history.  He stops looking at Cas and winces as his former self takes a punch to the stomach.

“I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag,” Dean says after a moment because the silence between them has stretched too long, and Dean doesn’t want Castiel wondering why, so he plasters his face with a lopsided grin and a shake of his head.

“What was this altercation about?” Castiel asks.

“I can’t remember,” Dean shrugs absently.

A few meters away, the memory of Dean makes his move, headbutts the man who holds him down, the one with a beard Dean thinks of as “Face-pubes” and the wide pupils.  He uses the ensuing confusion to break another man’s arm and manages to feint to the left and drive a third into the wall, knocking him out.  But then the bottle breaks, and Face-pubes lunges, and catches Dean in the leg.  Dean shakes him off, but he still has the bottle, and Dean’s hobbled.  Dean falls to the pavement, eyes rolling back with the pain, but he still manages to stay partially upright, still faces the other man and grits his teeth.  The memory of Dean has a gun in his coat, and he could draw it now, just as he could have drawn it earlier, but Dean does not want to have to fire it.  Not tonight.  Not when these guys are just being idiots and drunk and human, like everyone has the right to be.

So Dean just stares at him, watches silently as the man brings up the bottle for a second strike. But then he hears a whack, a grunt, and the thud of the man hitting the pavement and a dark skinned woman stands over him, with a baseball bat in her hand.

“You okay?” she asks, nudging Face-pubes with a foot and smiling slightly when he groans.

“Fine, sweetheart,” the memory of Dean lies, pressing his hand to his leg, feeling his hand slippery with blood.

The woman shakes her head at him like he’s a small child.

“Did you get a concussion?” she wonders more to herself than to him and pushes him so she can see the wound, “You should go to a hospital.”

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he says, firmly, but seeing her glare sighs, “I’ve...uh...been in other bar fights.”

Dean can see her now, dark skin that makes him think of picnics with his mom when he ran ahead and pushed away leaves to find earthworms in friendly soil that got under his fingernails.  She is not a small woman, short but stocky, thick, and he can feel the strength in her arms and hands as she presses cloth against the wound.  She works a belt around the leg, not as a tourniquet, but to keep the pressure. It’s a fashionable belt, with rhinestones and a patent leather shine and she must have been wearing it.

“They didn’t get anything major,” she tells him, “but you’re going to need stitches.”

“Thanks, lady,” Dean pushes himself up, “but I’m not going to the hospital.”

“No shit,” she says, somehow draping his arm over his shoulder, “but you just stepped in front of the guy calling my brother a faggot, and I’m not going to let you get carted away by the cops or bleed to death in an alley.”

Dean manages a strained laugh, “This happen to you a lot?”

Hard eyes seem to slap him, “You got a brother?”  
Dean swallows and nods and her eyes soften.  They don’t speak and the silence fills with the hum of an AC and the bassline of some terrible song in the bar and none of the usual discomfort that comes with not talking to someone you just met.

She drags him toward the street, taking more of his weight than he’d like to admit.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, finally, voice soft. “Why did you do that?”

Dean clears his throat, and in the memory he can’t tell what he would have said, but  he remembers when she stops to look him in the eye and that he can’t lie when a person looks at him like that.  Even when he wants to.

“People can’t help who they are,” his own voice low, barely a breath.

She pulls him toward a beat up Nissan missing some hubcaps. “And who are you?” she asks and her hair smells like shea butter and it’s warm and sweet and Dean knows he wants more.  He always wants more.

Dean gives her a saccharine smile, it’s sad and defensive if anyone looks past his mouth, but Castiel knows that doesn’t usually happen.  “Just another nightmare, sweetcheeks.”

The woman stares at him for a long time and her eyes are dark but open.  The streetlight overhead flickers off and on because it’s a shitty part of town and nothing works but Dean bristles because he always expects the worst.  They hear sirens in the distance and she opens the door to her car.  He moves to get in, but she pulls him close and he smells Ivory soap on her skin, clean and efficient and then he feels her her mouth warm and smooth against his as the police cars speed past and Dean thinks he tastes honey but it’s probably just cherry chapstick.  He’s so caught up in placing the flavor he’s caught by surprise when she breaks away, “Not tonight you aren’t.”

  
  


Castiel finds the thread in the backseat of the Nissan.  It’s a package of dental floss that Dean’s companion will use for his sutures.  It starts with a slow glow and a feeling like someone watches Castiel, an itch at the back of his neck.  Real Dean feels it, too, but then she pulls down his former self’s pants to clean the wound and Dean’s face goes tense and his eyes dart to Castiel’s before his mouth becomes a line and he slides behind a mask of stillness.  Castiel wants to slip beneath that mask, wants to find the Dean underneath but the air ripples around them and Castiel loses himself momentarily while he locates the change.

The plastic casing of the dental floss waxes and wanes, bathes them in a green-yellow glow that reminds Castiel of fireflies as it dims and illuminates once again, stronger with each incandescence.  Castiel feels it charge the air  The memory of Dean and his companion don’t seem to notice.  She bites her tongue, its pale tip barely parting her lips as she concentrates, threading the needles, sterilizing it.   She whispers nonsense about things not hurting and holds the thread in her hands. The floss itself glimmers gently in her fingers as she begins and the memory of Dean bites his lip and looks away.  The Real Dean closes his eyes.

Castiel watches the thread, wants to pull it out of her hands, tear it from the skin she sutures together, but this thread is just a symbol, a facade for the real one, burrowing through Dean’s memory, so he waits.  When she finishes the stitches, she runs a light finger over them before covering them with gauze and medical tape and the memory of Dean exhales without looking down.  But then her hand wanders higher than it strictly needs to.  It traces scars from a dozen hunts that graffiti his leg.  It pauses over even lines, regularly spaced, scars Dean did not get in a hunt, scars he never talks about, and then her hand continues its ambling ascent.

He feels his Dean blur before he sees it.  The Real Dean’s image hazes and clouds, and then his Dean bleeds into his old self, leaving Castiel sitting alone in the front seat of a car Dean barely recalls. Dean’s new eyes, his current eyes, full of pain and Hell and a light he won’t begin to acknowledge stare into the face of a nameless woman with a longing Castiel will rarely see.  It pleads with her for something Dean doesn’t seem to know he wants himself.

“Why did you do that?” Dean asks, echoing her earlier question.  His words are sincere but hollow, as if he reads from a script.

“Someone has to,” the woman says, and she shifts to straddle him awkwardly on the narrow seat.

“Has to what?” Dean recites, but the longing is palpable.  Perhaps only in retrospect did he know what he needed, Castiel muses.

“Take care of you,” She grins.  It’s coy but serious, and her hand presses against his shoulders, fixing him against the vinyl of the seat.  The body under her relaxes, the glow between them intensifies, luminescing like cat’s eyes in the dark.  Castiel briefly wonders which Dean’s muscles unwind at her touch--the unfished memory, or the man who he pulled from Hell.

“Nobody else will,” she continues.  “Especially not you.”

She kisses him, biting his bottom lip.  Dean’s hands wrap around the curve of her hips and presses into her as the light around them builds to a glare.  Castiel spots the source--still just a symbol--the plastic casing, still in her hands.  They twine their hands around it, urgently searching for something to hold on to, and Castiel has no choice but to yank it from their grasp.  Dean--his Dean--turns to face Castiel for an instant as she interlaces her fingers with his, and suddenly the force of this memory overtakes him.

Castiel, Angel-of-the-Lord, Celestial wavelength of intent, never knew touch as humans know it.  Angels require revelation and obedience, not touch.  Even Dean’s hand on his shoulder, heavy through layers of clothes sends electricity crackling through his vessel.  But these sensations sweep over and engulf him.  Soft, insistent skin slides against his, moist lips press into his mouth.  Somewhere far away he worries about what he’ll tell his father, worries that Sam will stay up all night waiting for him to come home, but then there are strong, sure hands working up the sides of his body, pushing into him in a way that manages to be painful but wonderful.  There is a fierceness and an anger in teeth nipping at his tongue and a heat that grows beneath his skin.  But this is not his skin.  These are not his lips.

“I’ve got you,” someone whispers as Castiel’s hands enclose the floss moments or hours later.  Castiel slams back into his own body, his own mind, as the memory plays out before him, rocking purposefully, eyes locked.  The couple no longer glowing with the light Castiel now holds in his shaking hands.  

He pockets the item, swallows deeply, and pushes off from the buoyancy of nostalgia, taking flight.  He knows he needs to return to the present, to Sam and Dean and the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he enjoys the wind on his face and he spends longer than he should looking at the sky and wondering about sad songs and crawling into skin that is not his own and hoping that there is some way to make Dean better.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little smutty. Also, sorry this has taken me forever to post. I'm still plugging away, I just haven't had much time to write.

Sam’s hair winds around his hands, pulled tight behind his ears, elbows propped on knees.  There’s a laptop open on the table next to him, but in the brief moments before Castiel touches down and regains form he sees Sam’s eyes, soft and lost, on his sleeping brother.  It only takes the snap of the fabric of his trenchcoat for Sam to realize Castiel has returned, and then he folds in on himself, like an accordion or a Oriental fan.  There are many things Castiel does not understand about Sam, having never held his soul, but he thinks he sees some things about him, like the way he stills in anger or fear, a snake waiting to pounce.  And this change is subtle, a shift from pained but relaxed contemplation, to tense immovability.  

“He’s worse,” Sam murmurs, voice almost as still as his rigid body.  His eyes dart to Castiel in accusation.

Castiel ignores Sam and walks to the bed.  Dean sleeps fitfully, breath shallow, but Castiel notices new bandages, blood peaking through layers of gauze and flannel.  He lifts the covers to find Dean’s leg, gash sewn closed by large calloused hands.  He touches the wound and watches as it knits itself back together.

“Intriguing,” he mumbles, pale finger sliding over newly made skin.  Dean groans fitfully in his sleep.

“Cas, what is going on?” Sam stands next to him, biting off the words.

Castiel regretfully removes his finger to retrieve the thread from an oversized pocket, “I found it.”

“Dental floss?” Sam’s fingers dwarf the case as he studies it, a pearly green glow shadowing across the plastic. He glances at Castiel, mouth making small movements behind pursed lips.  “This doesn’t feel evil,” he says finally.

Castiel regards him carefully.  He knows what Sam is, can see what he’s becoming.  They teeter, balanced on the pivot point of Dean.  Castiel wants to veer away, everything in him tells him the plan is wrong, divine or not, but he has his orders.  In the coming weeks, months and years Castiel will look back and wonder if this was the moment when he could have shifted Destiny, if a word and a look and a sharp, frank discussion of the type they never have could avoid catastrophe.  But Castiel won’t be brave enough to speak his mind for some time.  

“It can be hard to tell,” Castiel responds gruffly.  Sam bristles and Castiel relents, “An object is just a thing, a tool.  It can’t be evil.  It’s the intention with which it is wielded that is good or evil.  Perhaps this thread works to a greater purpose.”

Tension leaks out of Sam, and they both nod to themselves, satisfied they will stay the course.  It won’t be until hours later, as Castiel wades through more of Dean’s memories, that he’s struck by his own words, that he realizes he’s an instrument of Heaven, and wonders over the intentions of those who wield him.  It would be a moment of true doubt if he followed his thoughts to their conclusion, but there will be green eyes and a pearlescent glow and questions Castiel doesn’t want answered, so he’ll crabwalk to the side and push back rebellion until it’s too late.

“How is it possible that I’m even touching this?  Isn’t this just a memory?” Sam’s holding the case close to his face, turning it over as it shimmers.

Castiel manages not to roll his eyes, an absurd human reaction of his vessel, “I’m an angel.”  He turns back toward Dean, “Once I removed the thread from the memory, the wound became like any other wound. I can fix this.”

“So, if you can fish it out of each memory, you can heal him?” Sam holds his voice steady, but Castiel can hear a pleading underneath it.

Castiel shakes his head frowning, “I can heal the pieces, but I’ll need to find the source if he’s to be completely healed.” He pauses as he watches skin on Dean’s knuckles disintegrate, his short fingernails tearing and sighs, “Until I find it, this will keep happening.”

Dean tosses his good arm over his forehead and winces in restless sleep.  He coughs without waking and Sam’s face tugs at the edges into an inscrutable expression.

“You seem troubled,” Castiel observes, still eyeing the ragged edges of Dean’s fingertips.

Sam clears his throat and for a moment Castiel remembers that Sam is young, very young in the scheme of creation.  

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Sam says, voice small.

“I don’t understand.  After Alastair--”

“Sure,” Sam interrupts without looking at Castiel. “Sure.  I’ve seen him beaten to an inch of his life.  I’ve seen him bloody and with broken bones.  I’ve seen him when his heart was ready to give out.  I’ve just never seen him so…” Sam swallows and looks up, “run down, I guess.”

Castiel tilts his head, because he doesn’t truly understand, but when Sam talks he can see something.  He sees a deep anger and an even deeper fear and he wants to understand these things, but Sam shakes his head and his hand drops to a pocket on his coat.

Sam clears his throat. “I’m going to get some air,” he says and he lumbers toward the door.  Castiel can see him palm his phone before he walks outside.  And maybe he imagines it, but the smell of sulfur wafts in with the damp breeze before the door is firmly closed.

Dean stirs restlessly on the bed next to Castiel, as if he can sense Sam’s absence.  He coughs again and Castiel frowns.  He puts his hand to Dean’s head, a habit, because he should be able to heal him, but he only feels heat and sweat.  Dean stills at the touch, though, so Castiel sits down, hand resting on Dean’s hair as he pats him awkwardly.  It’s a simple motion, one he will learn is comforting to many people in times like these.  Dean’s breathing becomes soft and regular and Castiel will believe for a long time that the man was unaware of this small touch.

He will believe this for years until the world is ending and his grace is the barest whisper in his being.  It will be a damp autumn and even though half the camp has the flu, it will catch Castiel by surprise because he just can’t get used to being human.  Being fragile.

It will be dark, because Dean always comes after dark when most of camp is asleep.  There will be rain tapping the tin roof of Castiel’s cabin and wet leaves stuck to the soles of Dean’s boots when he comes through the door.  Castiel will be huddled under a blanket wondering what is wrong with him, shivering and unable to breathe and he’ll know he should get up and light a fire in the wood stove, but no matter how many times he thinks it, he won’t get up.  He’ll only be vaguely aware when Dean comes in and makes the fire, but he’ll wake fully when he hears the scrape of a chair against the floorboards and feels calloused fingers wend through his mess of dark hair, just as Castiel’s did long ago.  Castiel will moan, even though he doesn’t mean to, and Dean will make a soothing sound, so soothing that Castiel will melt into it, and then Dean’s other hand will slip under the blankets and find his hip.  Castiel will open his eyes and Dean will be staring at him, bright green eyes in the dim light, and Castiel wants so many things from Dean, and they all catch in his throat.  But Dean’s hand will be sure, it will feel cool against his fevered skin.  Dean will let it wander through the forest of Castiel’s wiry hair, will let it detour to his balls before it settles and Castiel’s cock, already firm and throbbing.  And Castiel won’t be sure, but he thinks they are both gasping when Dean’s hand finds its rhythm.  Dean will be tender and insistent and Castiel will be trembling with each stroke.  Dean’s hand will be the closest thing to heaven that Castiel has felt in a long time, but the best part will be Dean’s eyes, searching, and gentle, and not looking away.  And Castiel will be surprised by how much he wants to keep looking.

“Dean,” Castiel will say, his voice a ragged whisper, because part of him remembers that humans need to be careful around humans who aren’t well, but Dean’s hand grips his hair tighter.  And his eyes are locked into Castiel’s when he kisses him.  It will be a deep and passionate kiss and it will leave Castiel breathless and then, eyes still holding Castiel’s, Dean will slide down the length of his body, will tug down absurd Yoga pants, and will suck Castiel off until the man will be flushed and sweaty from something other than fever and he forgets all the downsides of humanity.

But that is years in the future and now, in the moment, Castiel feels hopeless in a way his later self will envy. He sits with Dean quietly, allowing minutes to expand so they feel like an eternity, but then he looks at Dean’s hands, and the bandaging on his shoulder.  He closes his eyes and flits back into Dean’s memories, and at the gentle whooshing of wings, Dean wakes to a dark and empty room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated in forever, but I've still been writing (slowly....so slowly). Please keep in mind that I started writing this literally years ago, so the time line from Season 8 on will be a bit timey wimey. Just bear with me? And I'll try to post a little more regularly. I'm hoping posting this chapter will spur me on to actually finish the thing.

Castiel finds the thread easily at first--it’s the string in the oversized hoodie Sam gives him, it’s a strand of Jo’s hair left on a flannel shirt when she cleans some minor cuts, or a silk tie left by a stranger Dean brought back to his motel room.  These memories flow easily, and many of their associated injuries or maladies are so minor, and so commonly adorn Dean’s body, Castiel hadn’t even seriously noticed them.  He loses himself in these memories, allows himself to become engrossed in these tiny vignettes of Dean’s life, allows himself to believe he can piece them together to make Dean whole.  He feels present Dean curled up like a cat in the back of his own mind, allowing Castiel to rifle through his past, quietly miserable.

It’s hard to tell how long he’s been chasing the thread when the shift happens, but suddenly the thread becomes much more difficult to tease from the fabric of these memories. His first challenge is a new memory--Dean’s still damp from the holy water Bobby splashed in his face.  He’s looking at the floor, at an oriental rug that may once have been red but has obediently accepted heavy boots grinding dirt into its fibers for so many years it’s flat and brown. Dean won’t look up because he doesn’t understand why he’s back and he doesn’t want Bobby to look into his eyes and see what he’s done.  

Bobby clears his throat and Dean chances a glance up.

“What’s with the hands?” 

Dean reflexively tries to make fists.  It’s been so long since he’s been safe, but his fingers are mauled, sticky with bloody dirt, fingernails torn or missing, so he just swallows and grunts out a single word, “Digging.”

Bobby mouths words Dean can’t make out, but then just bites his lips, letting his top teeth graze along the stubble of his lower lip. He walks silently to his desk and rummages through a drawer for a first aid kit while gruffly motioning for Dean to sit down somewhere.  Castiel feels the relief that floods through the memory, how Dean allows himself to relax incrementally.  Bobby and Dean settle into the wordlessness that has defined most of their relationship.  Dean allows himself melt into a chair as he listens to the vague bumping and rattling of Bobby’s supplies, and when he looks up again he sees Bobby’s face as he really takes a look at what he’ll be cleaning.  He somehow meets his eyes and Bobby dips his head in the tiniest of nods.  They don’t speak, and Castiel knows suddenly that they won’t exchange a word for the entire gruesome process as Bobby cleans and peels away flesh.  Castiel knows this just as he knows that despite the pain, this is the first time Dean will feel safe since digging himself out of his own grave.  But this remains unspoken as Bobby makes an abortive move to start on Dean’s right hand, and then takes a shuddering breath and pauses.  And that is when Castiel sees his first predicament. 

In previous memories the thread has always taken the form of a fiber, if not exactly an actual thread.  It’s been easy to pluck it artfully from the memory, place it in one of many handy trench coat pockets and fly into the next flashback.  But here, the thread swirls in the bottom of a whiskey bottle.  It luminesces as Castiel watches Bobby pour it generously into a dirty glass, and how is Castiel supposed to tuck that into a pocket?  

Bobby takes a long sip and exhales, readying himself for his task, and it’s at this moment when Castiel decides to swipe the glass, chug the contents and pray for the best.

 

Cas wishes he has time to be grateful for his success when he finds himself in Dean’s next memory, but he doesn’t have time.  This memory is short, so he sees the thread immediately, surrounding a dark haired woman like an aura. She and Dean are at a kitchen table in a cheap but clean apartment, coffee cups cradled in their left hands as she reaches out with her right.

“Stay,” she says, fingertips tracing the ripple of his knuckles.

Dean closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and it’s only by sheer, dumb luck that Castiel realizes Dean isn’t deflecting like usual but is trying to capture the woman’s scent.

“Lisa….” he starts but she nods before he can say anything.

“I know,” she cocks a half smile and squeezes his hand.

Dean catches it and they sit, draining their coffee, not wanting to move, hands held.  It’s the quietest memory Cas has seen.  But then the memory starts to fade.  Castiel hasn’t had time to figure out anything--is the thread supposed to be her smell?  A perfume?  Shampoo?  So he makes another wild guess and snatches the sweater draped across the back of her chair, and the memory blurs, and her face bleeds into nothingness.

 

This is how the memories play out, Cas scrambling to keep up as the thread becomes more and more ethereal.  He finds the thread in the steam of a shower Sam warms up for Dean before shoving him in the bathroom to clean up, he finds it in the warmth left on the sheets just after a lover walks out and shuts the door, he finds it in the tinkling of keys as a bar owner locks up behind Dean, and then he finds it in the Impala’s rearview mirror.

“No, sir.  Not everything,” Sam says and finds Dean’s eyes in the mirror, hooded and bleary as he slumps in the back seat.

Castiel feels the memory slipping and lunges to rip the mirror from the windshield, but the thread isn’t the mirror; it’s the reflection in the mirror.  The thread stops glowing, dissipating as soon as the mirror moves, and Castiel stares blankly at the useless object in his hand.  He can feel the memory sliding out from beneath him.

“Sh--” the curse is halfway out when the truck hits them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some smut and what might be considered dubious consent.

Dean hasn’t thought about most of these memories in a long, long time and he decides to avoid them a little longer. He feels miserable enough to allow himself to slip away from the parts of himself Cas uses to chase the thread. He turns his back and stubbornly ignores them, or tries to.  And eventually, he settles.  Eventually, he drifts into something like sleep.

Dean doesn’t like to talk about his dreams, especially since he came back from Hell. They are dark, full of blood and skin, laced with the feeling that he can never wake up.  But if he’s honest with himself, he loves the peace of fever dreams.  They’re random, and episodic, and they fade out quickly before the next bizarre, non-sensical adventure begins. It’s the one perk of getting his ass kicked within an inch of his life as frequently as he does--it’s the only time he can really sleep.  In some ways, it’s the only rest he gets.

This is why Dean is caught unawares.  

The dream is a good one. The first thing he becomes aware of is how comfortable he feels.  The aches of reality seem distant as his body is cocooned in something warm and soft.  Somewhere in the real world he can still feel the body aches, and the soreness of his ribs, but he tucks himself away in the dream, and for a long time he just allows himself this .  He lies in this  nest and simply lets himself feel safe.  

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there when he finally reaches out.  He doesn’t know why he does it, maybe he’s just rolling over, but when he pulls his hands back he gasps when discovers a handful of feathers.  Black.

He combs his hands through giant wings, he trembles when he begins to hear Cas’ breath, ragged, yearning, and then he’s somehow on his back.  He can’t see Cas’ face, but he feels his hands, long fingers coax the tension out of his muscles. Dean allows himself to fall into the touch.  He closes his eyes and melts, but then the touch changes.  Cas’ long fingers become gentle and Dean looks down to see him tracing intricate designs along his torso.  

“What are you doing?” Dean wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if his voice is working and then he decides he doesn’t care. Whatever this is, it just feels so damn good.  Dean throws back his head, licks his lips, tries not to make the needy sounds that threaten to tumble from his throat.

Cas outlines the site of each injury, etches him with lines and symbols that glow with a Grace Dean knows he doesn’t have.  And when he’s done with his fingers he starts to mouth them softly and Dean can’t stay still.  He arches into the weight of flesh and wings, the designs on his body burning brighter as his anticipation builds.  With anxious hands he grabs for Cas, pulls him toward him, searches for pale lips.

“Up here,” he gasps, biting his lip, dragging his teeth along his own skin.

Cas’ eyes are heavy, hooded and this is what drives Dean bonkers--the sight of Cas dazed, the thought that this is Dean’s doing.  In the real world Dean’s not sure what to make of this.  But here, he decides, it doesn’t matter.  Here, he can enjoy this.

Cas lifts his eyes slowly.  And, they are as vibrant as ever.  But they’re green.  And they’re wrong.

 

Suddenly, the patterns on his body burn more brightly, and they, too, become green.  Dean scrambles backward, claws himself away from Cas, who now stands, and becomes consumed in emerald light.

“What the fuck?” Dean shouts.

“I just take what’s in front of me,” the light says.  “I don’t create anything that isn’t already there.”

“Fuck,” Dean repeats. He’s looking for a weapon, but he knows he won’t find one.  Knows it will be useless in a dreamscape in any event.

“Dean,” the light says, almost pleading, “I’m trying to help you.  I’m not creating these wounds.  I’m just showing you where they are.”

“Thanks a bundle,” Dean growls.

The figure laughs, “Oh, Dean, don’t you get it?  I’m not a monster.  I’m just another scar.”

Dean lunges, but the figure is gone and the only thing that’s left is the throbbing light of his heart, dimming with each beat.


	9. Chapter 9

He’d gotten what he’d wanted from Ruby.  And what he needed.  His hand absently pats his jacket, feeling for now-full flasks. It will be enough to last him a week, if he’s careful.  

He crosses the parking lot, dodging puddles, a bag of take out and a six pack in one hand, his key quietly jangling in the other.  Sam tries to shove down thoughts of Ruby--of what they do together--before he gets to the door, so he walks a little slower, tries to take some deep breaths to steady himself.  But it’s always hard, especially when he hasn’t seen her in a while, when his appetite has been growing.

Sam opens the door as quietly as he can. The room is dark and silent and he hopes this means Dean is sleeping. He wants Dean to get all the rest he can, but he also doesn’t feel like lying to his brother about where he’s been, so he doesn’t turn on the light, and he takes his shoes off before creeping to the kitchenette to deposit the beer and food.  He opens the fridge, its cold light barely reaches across the room to the beds.  But even in the dimness, he can see Dean’s bed is barren.  Tangled blankets pool on the floor, leaving naked white sheets.  And no Dean.

Sam panics at the empty bed.  His heart pounds, his fists clench and it feels like an eternity before he thinks to look in the bathroom, although it’s probably more like a few seconds.  Part of him takes note of how on edge he must be to be this freaked out over his brother using the bathroom, but then again, Dean’s sprawled on the bathroom floor.  Not exactly face down, but close enough for Sam to think the panic might be warranted.

It takes him a few minutes to shimmy into the bathroom--longer than he’d like, but Dean’s a big guy and the door hits him when Sam tries to open it, so he has to spend some time tangling his arms through the small opening to reposition Dean.  By then, Dean’s coming to with a groan and a grimace.

“Dammit Sam,” Dean croaks out as he tries to roll over to make room.

“What the hell?  What happened?”

“Had to piss,” Dean winces as Sam repositions him and props him against the bathtub. He puts a hand to his side.  “Man, these fucking ribs.”

“How long have you been here?” Sam asks, hands steadying.

Dean tries to shrug, but bites his lip at the effort, “I don’t know.  Took a piss, got dizzy, went down.  Think I was out for a bit.”

Sam sighs and readies himself to hoist his brother, “Alright man, let’s get you back on your feet.”

Dean coughs and groans and Sam can’t tell what’s changed because Dean is careful to keep his face stony, and keep his eyes fixed on the ugly flowered wallpaper, but suddenly the full weight of his brother’s misery hits him.  He kneels and puts his hand to his forehead.

“Geez, Dean,” he says like a curse. 

Dean closes his eyes and doesn’t look at him, “I don’t think I can get up yet.”

Sam nods and stands.  He grabs some aspirin from the sink and fills one of the hotel-issue glasses with water before handing them over.

He nudges Dean’s leg and gets him to scoot closer to the toilet.  Somehow Sam manages to fold himself next to him, back leaning against the tub, one shoulder smooshed into the wall, the other grazing his brother’s arm.  It’s a tight squeeze but not exactly uncomfortable.  

From here, Sam can see the damage more clearly. He recognizes these wounds, or at least some of them. Not the anonymous black eye or split lip, but the torn chest from Azazel, the burns from a fire spirit they put down when they were still teens, these are distinctive.  These he remembers.

And if he’s honest with himself, he remembers the broken ribs, too, he just doesn’t like to think about them.  

Dean leans his head back and lets it hang, hissing almost inaudibly through clenched teeth.  Sam’s eyes catch on fresh blood dotting his brother’s shirt.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Shit, not again,” Dean sighs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Sam reaches past him to snatch a hand towel from the sink.  He pulls down the collar and gently mops up the blood until he can get a look at the cut.

“I remember that,” Sam says, fingers grazing the edges of the skin.  It’s deep but clean.

Dean groans dramatically and squints at him, “Dude, seriously?”  

“I remember that,” Sam says again, suddenly animated. “This was the first cut I stitched up.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Did you put a page about it in the family scrapbook?”

But Sam isn’t really listening, because something is missing.  Something he can’t quite pinpoint.

“You left me in the hotel room,” he says slowly. “Even though it was supposed to be a straightforward salt and burn…”

Sam works over the memory.  It’s hazy except for the end and he finds he has to work backward from the stitches to what came before.

“But if Dad was on that hunt, why did I end up stitching you up?” Sam muses, more to himself than to Dean.

“Because I screwed up,” Dean speaks softly and he still won’t look at Sam.  “I couldn’t get the salt down fast enough.”

Sam nods, details slipping together, “The spirit pushed you through a window.”

“And got away…”

“So Dad dropped you off and went back out to get it,” Sam finishes.  He can almost hear the slam of the Impala door, and his father barking something at Dean before he hear the click of the keys in the lock.  “Dude...you were covered in blood.  Glass everywhere.”

It had made Sam sick, the sight of all that blood, slick against Dean’s clothes, his hands slippery and shaking.  Sam had seen blood before, but he was young, and once Dean got the 4 inch shard from his shoulder, the blood kept coming and coming…

 

_ “Why’d he bring you here?” Sam yells, his own hands sticky from gauze that can’t staunch the flow.  “He should have brought you to the hospital.” _

_ “I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean takes a swig of whiskey and a shuddering breath.  He isn’t more more than 16.  “I just need to suture it shut.  It’s fine.  I’m fine.  I’ll be okay.” _

_ But for maybe the first time, Sam knows this is bullshit.  He can tell from the positioning of the wound, Dean’s shaking hands, still embedded with smaller shards that Dean won’t be able to do this on his own. _

_ He wants to shout about their father, about what sort of man leaves his teenage son covered in glass and blood in a two bit hotel room with a 12 year old, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he takes a deep breath.  He tries not to let his voice shake. _

_ “Here, man,” he hopes he sounds calm, but he doubts he can fool Dean, “I can do it.” _

_ “You look like you’re about to puke,” Dean observes, but he shoves the first aid kit across the table. _

_ Sam gulps down bile and gets to work _ .

 

“You were so scared,” Dean laughs.  Sam doesn’t feel any pity when he grimaces for the effort.  “I seriously thought you were going to pass out before me.  You had such a thing with blood.  It’s why we didn’t take you on the hunt.”

Sam ignores him, ignores the gentle thump of the flasks as he stands, “Where are the other cuts?”

“What?”

“That night you were covered in nicks and gashes.  I spent all night helping you pull glass slivers out.  Why don’t we see any of those cuts now?”

Dean goes very quiet.  So quiet, Sam knows he’s onto something.

“And the ribs…” he continues, not intending to say it out loud.

“Let’s not talk about the ribs,” Dean’s voice is feral, low and menacing, the way it gets when Sam wants to talk about Dad.

“Fine...let’s talk about the broken wrist that went along with the ribs.  Where’s that now?”

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs and he looks down, “I’m not beat up enough as it is?  You want me to have a broken wrist too?”

Sam sighs, impatient.  “No, Dean, that’s not what I’m saying.  What I’m saying is there’s a pattern here and we’ve been missing it. I think I’m starting to figure out what’s going on.”


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel doesn’t know where he is.  He doesn’t know where the truck went, or what happened to the Impala, but he knows he’s not where he’s supposed to be.  It takes him a few moments of wandering before he realizes he must be lost.  

He reaches out, trying to find the thrum of the universe, searching for some sort of Celestial coordinates so he can take off and fly away, but he finds nothing.  He wonders if this might be an after effect of the crash...but that was just a memory.  It doesn’t make sense to him.

Finally, Cas decides to simply take stock of his surroundings.  He’s in a forest, and it’s raining lazily through the leaves.  He can discern traffic noise in the distance, but he can’t gauge how far away.  Birds are singing, in spite of the rain.  He’s reasonably certain he’s somewhere in Dean’s head, but for no other reason than a feeling that Dean would like it here.  He wonders if he’s ever found him in a dream walking through the mammoth trees.  But beyond a feeling that this place must be Dean’s, Cas can’t be sure of much.  He can’t tell if this is a memory, or something different.  He thinks of his promise not to “wander off” in Dean’s head and decides to sit on a nearby stump and wait to see if his confusion clears.

The forest floor is soggy beneath his shoes, and his shoes get caught as he sits, one almost getting pulled off from the suction.  Castiel leans down to pry it loose when he sees a green pearl, glowing from the inside.  It’s directly in front of him, and when Cas picks it up, it seems to whisper some hidden meaning into his skin.  He drops it into his pocket, happy to get it out of his hand, but then immediately sees another, about 10 feet in front of him, next to some dripping ferns.  And from there, he can see yet another.

Castiel follows the pearls over a bank, pocketing them one by one.

“Follow me,” he hears them say.  “Follow me.”

From the top of the small hill he can see where they lead--down to deep impressions in the mud.  An old logging road.  One with fresh tire tracks.  

He picks his way over roots and sticks until he’s standing next to the road and confirms his suspicion. He steps between the grooves of the road, and stands on the center hump, where grass and the tiniest of saplings manage to grow.   As soon as he steps between the tracks, his senses are flooded. He knows exactly where he is in the universe.  He knows roughly where he is in Dean’s mind.  And he knows he should go.

For long minutes Castiel stands in the center of the road and peers into the distance, eyes searching.  The pearls stretch out in front of him, to wherever the Impala was headed.  This is not a memory for him, and Cas wants to be faithful to his promise to Dean.  

But the pearls beckon and Cas cannot resist.  

He picks up the next one.


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel finds Dean curled in the back of the Impala, a grey woolen blanket half crumpled on the floor.  Dean himself contorted at ungodly angles to fit his frame onto the bench seat, arm tucked under one ear, layers of clothing wrinkled and dingy.  He’s snoring, unusual for Dean, who rarely falls into a sleep sound enough to allow his breath to fall deep and regular.  Castiel wonders if this is a testament to how miserable Dean feels, that he allowed himself to sink so completely out of the world.  That he drove his car into the middle of nowhere to crash, that he’d go to such lengths to be alone.  

Castiel knows Dean profoundly.  He rebuilt him with care and awe, placed a soul still raw from Hell back into a remade vessel, but it still unnerves him to see Dean look so vulnerable, and somehow so young, even though this memory is only a few years old.  He can’t be sure, but he guesses this memory is from the time shortly before Sam went to college, or perhaps shortly after.  A time when Dean already felt alone, even when he wasn’t driving his car into the middle of nowhere to fall apart. Hidden behind a dark mass of trees, huddled against the chill outside, Dean only allows himself to be broken in solitude.  Away from anyone who might see his vulnerability and try to help him.  And yet Castiel watches, unseen, doing exactly that.

In the present, Dean guards everything about himself so carefully it’s almost a shock when Castiel sees the skin of this Dean’s stomach peeking through denim and flannel and cotton. Castiel spies the gentle rise and fall of each breath, the dimple of his belly button, the harsh angles of his hips, and the downy trail pointing to a promise below the seaming of his jeans.  Dean’s skin whispers warmly as it meets the cotton of his shirt.  It calls to Castiel through time and memory, inviting him to things he won’t allow himself to imagine.

Castiel licks his lips, teeth grazing his tongue, biting back.

If this were a different time, or a different place, if it weren’t a recording of a memory Dean pretends he doesn’t have, if Castiel had watched over Dean from the start instead of listening to orders, he would be able to reach down and touch Dean’s stomach. He would welcome the firmness of his obliques and, if he was lucky, if Dean looked at him with trust in the brightness of his fevered eyes, he would drag his hand across his belly, revel in the softness under muscle.  He would allow his fingertips to trace the center of that dark blond trail, kneading slowly downward and then he would lay his palm flat against Dean’s skin. He would feel with smooth hands the unnatural warmth that rolls from that body, and he would do something about it.  He would harness the fire burning within himself and push it into Dean’s core, savor the moment when it radiates through the man and puts him back together.  But, this is not something Castiel can do, although the thought of it makes his own belly stir warmly.  Instead, he reaches down, and places the heel of a hand Dean can’t feel against the man’s jaw.  He runs his thumb along the hard line of his cheek and watches as Dean opens his eyes, oily with exhaustion.  He is not really here, but Castiel wants to believe Dean can see him, or at least feel him.  He wants to believe he’s provided some comfort as Dean groaned and blinked blearily into the glare of sunlight Castiel would block if he were really present.  

Castiel will think of this moment in the future, when he is less obedient and more courageous.  When he hasn’t quite stopped believing in fate or destiny, but starts to believe it is his responsibility to create them for himself.  When the pain of watching Dean hate himself so fully outweighs his fear of being pushed away.  At that moment, he will cup Dean’s face and hold him with a ferocity that will force Dean’s anger to melt away to fear.  He will hold him while Dean strains and struggles against him until the man becomes still and the fear becomes sadness. And then, finally, when Castiel’s hands relax to gently cradle his chin, when the stubble of Dean’s beard bites into Castiel’s pale fingers, he will watch the sadness peel away to a spark of hope they will both cling to in the long night that follows.

In this moment, Castiel’s present and Dean’s past, he stares numbly as Dean rolls over, coughing into the crook of his elbow and pulls out a faded photo from the pocket of his father’s leather jacket.  He leans it carefully against the ashtray and winces up at the image.

“Hey, Mom,” he says groggily. “Keep an eye on me, will you?”

Dean rolls toward the backrest with another groan and fights to fall back asleep.

Castiel knows he should leave, knows it’s time to stumble back where he belongs and leave Dean alone in this memory.  He gets out of the car, tenses at the squeak of the door, and tries his best to shut it quietly, even though he knows the memory of Dean can’t hear him.  Then Dean groans, and it’s a pitiful, broken sound. The memory of Dean shifts restlessly, and tries to burrow into the ragged blanket, and all of this troubles Castiel, maybe more than it should, so he pauses.  Castiel knows he shouldn’t do this, knows it’s against the rules and all good sense, but still, almost reflexively, he pushes a hand through time and space.  He touches Dean once again and stays, watching, until Dean finally drifts into a dream Castiel calls forth.  It’s a dream of an apron that smells of baking pie and fingers that wore Dean’s ring as they played through his hair.  It’s a dream that Castiel knows will make Dean feel safe. 

  
And maybe, just maybe, it’s a dream Castiel likes watching Dean have.


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel lingers.  He watches Dean long after the man's breath has become even and peaceful.  He paces around the Impala, mud sucking awkwardly against his shoes, listening to the muted sounds of a forest in light rain.  He tries not to think about how often he checks in on a Dean that he knows will get better, but somehow it doesn’t seem right to leave.  And in any event, that is how he finds the thread.  The glow starts ever so slowly, so slowly that Castiel initially mistakes it for a reflection, and he assumes the sky must be clearing, but then it grows until Castiel has no choice but to see.  The Impala itself becomes luminous, almost flame-like, Dean cradled within.  It’s a breathtaking sight, something so large, smoldering with such intensity, and Castiel has to shield his eyes.  He puts a hand up to block the glare, squints through his fingers, and wonders how he’s supposed to trap this part of the thread.  The pearls in his pocket vibrate.  They buzz with anticipation.  The green light builds without heat and the pearls seem to shout without words, urging him forward, until finally Castiel leaps, almost without thinking.  He claws at the door handle, tries to jump inside, but the moment he touches the door, the flames lick up his arm and engulf him.

They don’t burn in the way he expects.  His body--his vessel--feels fine, even comfortable, but his Grace sears under the skin. He writhes feebly against it, Grace scorching every fiber of his being, his mind screaming at the pain.  The fire seems to last an eternity, or maybe just seconds, before he throws his head back, probably in a scream, when he sees a bird--a dove--flying overhead. And then he looks down and through tongues of flame he sees images--Dean’s mother hands him tomato soup, an unrecognizeable shape finds Dean under the bleachers and helps him to his feet, Bobby stands on the other side of a hospital door and looks at the xrays the social worker shows him.  These are enough to remind Castiel of his purpose and he gathers himself and tries to throw himself through the flames into these memories, but then he feels a hand on his shoulder.  It’s firm and it sends sparks through his form.  

“You said you wouldn’t wander off,” the hand is unforgiving, and when Castiel turns to him, Dean’s face is set but his eyes flicker darkly.  It will take Castiel time to place that look, but once he sees it, he’ll be able to recognize it when it overtakes Dean in the future, as it often will.  That look is somehow greater than fear.  That look is shame.

“I got lost…” Castiel tries to explain, but Dean closes his eyes, gives his head a half shake and pushes Cas.  It’s gentle, almost regretful, but it hits him with enough force to push him out of Dean’s memories, out of Dean’s mind, and into the nothingness between reality and dreams.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam spends a long time cataloguing the damage.  At first it’s easy, because of how distinctive the wounds are, but then he gets to the random gashes, and the nondescript bruising.  Is this broken pinky from the night Dean slammed it in the car door when they had to make a quick getaway in Lewisburg? Or is it from the time in Summit Hills when that biker caught on to Dean hustling pool?  Sam doesn’t know.  He can’t know.  But he marks down the pinky anyway and tacks it on the wall with the injuries he remembers.  And then he draws a blocky question mark on another card, and tacks it just below.

Dean hates evidence boards.  He hates them so much that Sam keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting his brother to break through any spellwork just to make a lame crack about CSI Miami and call him a pussy.  But Dean hasn’t moved much lately. Sam’s not going to think about that, though.  He just pulls out another card.

Sam can’t even remember the last time Dean had the flu.  Maybe when he was at Stanford.  There was that time when they were teens, when they’d both gotten it on a hunt and Dad left them in a motel room and they’d watched Star Trek and Oprah until their eyes blurred.  And then Dad came back in the middle of the night, so drunk he could hardly stand, and Sam watched from under the covers as Dean peeled himself out of bed to help the man take off his shoes and in the morning Dad was in the bed sleeping it off and Dean was on the floor wiping his nose on his sleeve.

That, of course, was Dean in a nutshell and it was something Sam admired about him, even as much as it drove him crazy.  For all his foibles, Dean always dug a little deeper than Sam.  Sam didn’t know how to get there.  But that was before Dean had gone to hell.  Before Sam started scraping the bottom, and he realized it was a lot further down than he’d thought.

But Dean…

Sam looks over at the lump under the blankets and shakes his head to no one in particular.  Since Hell Dean’s just been different.  It’s like he’s afraid of his own strength and maybe Sam can’t blame him, because going all in hadn’t exactly played out all that well.  And maybe it’s just time for Sam to do the digging for a change.  Regardless, things are different, and Sam’s got to step up to the plate.

It will be a long time before Sam can admit that he’s wrong.  He won’t really know how far his brother can go until he sees his own fists hitting Dean, until he hears his brother’s voice, broken and hoarse, telling him “I’m here.”  That will also be the moment Sam realizes how deeply he can dig.  The moment he knows he can dig all the way to Hell.

For now, Sam just wants to figure out the mess that is his brother, so he goes back to the cards, ignores the buzzing beneath his skin because if he’s working he doesn’t have to think about how long it’s been since Dean woke up, or how much hunting they aren’t doing, or what’s in the flask in his jacket, or how much he wants it.

 

Sam’s started on the yarn, and he’s twisting around a tack, holding tension between that and another when Castiel crash lands, a wrecking ball in a trenchcoat.  He slams into the wall and knocks over a lamp and papers and index cards spray across the floor. It’s clumsy and destructive and extremely loud, but apparently even a fallen angel isn’t enough to rouse Dean, who mumbles something unintelligible, groans, and curls tightly around one of the extra pillows.

“Cas,” Sam reaches out a hand to help him up.  Sam isn’t sure what to make of Castiel, maybe because he’d been hoping for so much more.  And of course, the last time he’d interacted with Cas, it was massively underwhelming.  And yet here they are again, Dean slowly burning away, and Sam waiting on a prayer. “Where have you been?”

Castiel quirks his eyebrows as if he can sense Sam’s misgivings and fishes a random assortment of items from his pockets--hair and neckties, condom wrappers and rusty keys.  He tosses them on a flimsy table with a glare, “Searching for the thread.”

Sam runs his fingers over the items, trying to remember.  He picks up a black cotton cord, one from his favorite hoodie, “You’ve been busy,” he muses.  “Did you find the source?”

Castiel narrows his eyes and shakes his head, “Something...unexpected happened.  I think Dean pushed me out.”

Sam doesn’t slam his hand into the wall or even raise his voice, and Castiel is surprised, because that was the reaction Castiel got the last time he couldn’t help Dean.  The last time Sam was scared.  But Sam simply shakes his head and turns back to the wall, and his carefully sorted index cards, and Castiel only catches the briefest glimpse of his face but he sees what he thought was disappointment is really disgust.  It’s quiet, and it’s small, but it leaves a faint bitterness in the room, like smoke after a fire.   Through the fabric of his coat he can feel the pearls shiver against him.  

“We can't hunt like this,” Sam says and his voice isn't a whisper, but Castiel has to arch forward to hear him anyway. “We can't find Lilith or stop the apocalypse like this.” Sam rubs his hands down his face with a sigh. “We can't do our jobs like this.  And now he pushes you out?  Won't even let you help him?”

Sam bends down to pick up the index cards Cas knocked over during his crash.  He’s stacking them roughly when he freezes.

“Wait.  Wait,” he says, somewhat unnecessarily, because Cas isn’t doing anything.   Sam pulls note cards from the pile and tacks them frantically on the wall.

“You’ve been busy, too,” Castiel notes flatly as he surveys the cards.  Sam’s work has been thorough and Castiel mentally matches each ailment with it’s symbolic thread.

Sam nods enthusiastically, but he’s too busy restringing the yarn to look at Cas.

“I’ve been working on the thread in my own way,” he explains.  “I noticed that some of Dean’s injuries were inconsistent with how they actually happened.  He sometimes only has certain breaks or cuts, even though he might have had more when it happened.  I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

Sam reaches for the hoody string.  He runs it through his hands, lets his calloused fingers catch on the fibers, and he sighs.  Castiel waits.  If there’s one thing he’s learned from his short time with Dean, it’s that you don’t interrupt a Winchester when he’s finally decided to talk.

“I think all of these wounds, all of these injuries, are ones that Dean had help with.  Like the cut on his leg got sewed up by that woman, and how I sewed up the cut on his shoulder, or how Bobby brought him to the hospital for his ribs.”

Castiel furrows his brow, he thinks of the glimpse he’d stolen of Bobby, just beyond a wall of green flame.  The pearls whisper loudly in his pocket.

“You think the reasons these injuries appear is because he accepted assistance?”

Sam nods, “It’s because he needed help.”

Castiel looks at Dean.  Dean's lost in a tangled mass of blankets, bruises, cuts and breaks still mottling his body.  Castiel rakes his eyes along Dean’s flushed face.  He notices the sheen of sweat on his skin.  And Castiel’s Grace can feel Dean’s wounds. It echos the pain Dean feels.  It makes Castiel ache in a way he’s never felt before.

He can't heal Dean, not completely, but he can help parts of Dean, and for now that will have to be enough.  So Castiel takes a breath and places his hand on Dean’s forehead, allowing his Grace to flow into Dean.  He tries not to think of the memory of Dean in the Impala, or of the feeling in his belly as he guides flesh and bone.  These feelings are below angels, he tells himself.

_ Or beyond them _ , the pearls whisper.  Castiel ignores them. 

Instead, Castiel closes his eyes, steps back into his own memory of Dean's memories.  He thinks of Dean's eyes when the nameless woman took care of him.   And he’s seen that look before.  

_ You don’t think you deserve to be saved, _ Castiel had said, and he didn't understand then, or maybe he wasn't built to understand, but when he steps back, he can see the damage in Dean's eyes when he looked up at him, when he said nothing and finally looked away.  And Castiel can recognize that look in each of Dean’s memories.

Castiel inhales deeply and refocuses on Sam, “It's not just that he needed help,” he explains. “It's that he got help he didn't think he deserved.”

Sam tilts his head, considering.  He swallows and nods curtly, because it makes sense, and maybe Sam should have seen it.  Maybe he should have known.  Maybe there are other things he hasn’t seen about his brother. Sam gives his head a small shake, as if he can toss these thoughts out by jostling his hair.

“What would be doing this?” 

“I have something to show you,” Castiel says.

With great care he pulls a pearl from his pocket and places it in Sam’s upturned hand.  Castiel can hear the pearl whisper frantically, although he can’t understand the words, or even if there are any.  Sam’s eyes widen and he hastily deposits it on the table.

“What is it?” Sam asks warily.  The pearl is quieter now, but Sam can still hear it at the edges of his consciousness.   _ If you think you have good intentions... _ Sam takes a step back. Castiel stares pensively, eyes narrowed, and Sam wonders what he sees.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits.  “But I have some ideas.”


	14. Chapter 14

Dean’s never had a problem walking through the fire.  Since the day he carried his brother out of their house, to the day he ended up in Hell, he’s been skirting flames and that’s never bothered him.  The real terror, he knows, is on the other side of the flames.  Because on the other side of the flames, when you’re barefoot in the grass, you’re suddenly a boy without a mom.  On the other side of the flames, you’re the type of man who doesn’t know himself.  The type of man who takes a knife to another human soul.  And that’s worse than burning alive.  Discovering the truth about yourself can be like that.

So Dean finds himself encased in emerald flame, surrounded by memories he cherishes and despises, afraid to step forward, afraid to cross the veil, because on the other side he knows he will find the thread that will unravel who he thinks he is.

Like all the memories Cas has been rifling through, these are tinged with yearning but seeped in shame and Dean doesn’t think of them.  Ever.  He carved them out of his mind and left nothing but blank holes in their place.  It doesn’t matter that each time he does this to himself he feels himself bleeding out.  He wouldn’t know what parts of himself were there, if he didn’t keep reminding himself of what was missing.  And, God, there are a lot of parts missing. Sometimes he feels like he’s more empty space than substance, but it’s better this way. But now they’re back, and he’ll finally have to face up to who he really is.

The call of these memories is intoxicating, and that is why Dean had to cut them out in the first place.  He didn’t deserve them. And he knows he won’t be able to resist them now.

He takes a step forward.


	15. Chapter 15

 

When were They last spotted? Castiel can’t remember.  Perhaps that’s why he didn’t recognize Them at first.  He tries not to let that niggle him, because what does it mean when an Angel of the Lord can’t recognize The Spirit?  

He supposes part of him always suspected The Spirit had gone to Earth, and of course They had.  The Spirit went where They were needed, assumed whatever form was required. Heaven had assumed it didn’t need Them.  Castiel wondered now, pearl held delicately to an ear, whether They had left because Heaven didn’t need Them, or because Heaven had stopped listening.

Castiel tries to listen now, pearls murmuring words that have no language, and there is so much he can’t begin to fathom.  Confusion settles in his vessel’s chest and he looks to Sam, but Sam looks vaguely nauseous every time he gets too close.

“What exactly are we listening for?” Sam asks, taking another step away from the ashtray they’d filled with pearls.

“The Reason,” Castiel says simply.  His eyes are closed and he still holds the pearl by his ear, although he’s slowly realizing the pearls don’t really audibly whisper.  It’s more of a whisper to the soul.  Which is odd, because as an angel, Castiel didn’t think he had a proper soul.  

_ A mystery for another time _ . Part of him suggests.  Or maybe it’s the pearl.  He can’t be sure. 

“‘The Reason’ for what?” Sam huffs and he’s using air quotes, so he must be pretty irritated, but Castiel doesn’t know how to explain.  

“You can think of The Spirit as inspiration personified,” Castiel attempts, although this is a gross over-simplification.

_ Education is just a series of smaller and smaller lies _ .

“They come when They’re needed to help you discern how to proceed.  The Spirit helps you see Truth.”  Castiel shifts uncomfortably, because he’s sounding a little too mystical even for his own taste. “I’m hoping They’ll tell us the reason They’re here.  What are They trying to tell Dean?”

_ Not just Dean. _ The pearls tremble.  Sam grabs his laptop and sits in a sagging armchair that protests under his weight.  Castiel can’t imagine that it’s comfortable, but it’s the farthest from the pearls.

“But what about the other victims?  The ones with their life force drained?” Sam asks from across the room.

“I’m not an expert on human nature,” Castiel ventures slowly.  

Sam tries and fails to suppress an eye-roll, but Castiel either opts to ignore him or is oblivious even to this.

“Nevertheless,” Castiel continues, “It’s been my observation that humans often won’t allow themselves what they need, even if it kills them.”

Sam squirms, and Castiel wonders if it’s his words or the armchair that have caused discomfort.  

“You think that’s what killed them?”

Castiel considers momentarily before turning toward Dean. “I think The Spirit shows you what you need, and where you need it.  I thought the caster was draining Dean’s energy, but now I think The Spirit just made him aware of the thread that connected lost energy.  And I suspect once someone is made aware of that, they either have to adjust or they intensify harmful behavior.”

“So, you’re saying if he doesn’t adjust, The Spirit will kill him?”

“No, Sam,” Castiel’s eyes darken and his voice drops, because he wants Sam’s attention.  He more than wants Sam’s attention, he wants to command Sam’s attention, but he resists the urge, “If he can’t adjust, Dean’s own behavior will kill him faster than it already is killing him.  Much faster.”

Sam stands and paces shaking his head.  He looks both rattled and as if this somehow solidifies something unspoken within himself.

“But you need him, right?” Sam asks. “For the work you need him to do or whatever.  For The Divine Plan the angels keep talking about.  That’s why you brought him back.  So, you can find a way to save him.”

Castiel contemplates the metaphysics of Dean working against himself faster than he already had been, given that Dean had actually already died and Castiel was the one to resurrect him.  But Cas isn’t sure that he could resurrect Dean a second time...not if The Spirit had a hand in his undoing.  

“I don’t know, Sam,” he admits.  “As Dean might say, this is ‘above my paygrade.’” Castiel attempts to use air quotes as well. Sam deepens his scowl.

“So that’s it? He’s dying? Again?”

“Well...technically, still...” Castiel shrugs and quickly looks at the ground as Sam glares at him. “But...The Spirit comes to assist.  I think whatever it is happening, it is meant to help him with his purpose.”

From the bed, Dean groans as he repositions himself.  Castiel can tell he shifts in a way to protect his ribs.  Castiel suddenly wants to sit next to the bed, to place his hand on Dean, to offer comfort even if he can’t offer Grace.

“So...what do we do?” Sam’s voice is strained and Castiel recognizes the powerlessness behind it.

“I think that we let Dean make his own choices.”

“By just sitting here?” Sam sounds almost panicked now, the thought of sitting idle somehow more terrifying than fighting demons.

“No.  By having faith.”

“In what?” Sam scoffs, tossing up his hands.  “In God?  In  _ you _ ?”

Castiel waits, lets his silence draw out until Sam stops his agitated motion and turns, meeting Castiel’s eyes with defiance.  It is then that Castiel looks up, locks Sam in his gaze so he knows he will truly hear.

“In Dean.”

Castiel can see Sam’s jaw clench.  He watches something dark and rabid pass behind the other man’s eyes.  He thinks he hears the pearls whisper, but maybe it’s the wind.

“I’m not going to stand idle while I watch my brother die.  Again,”  Sam’s voice is clipped, ferocious.  He moves toward the door.

“Then don’t,” Castiel replies simply.  He holds out the pearls, “Bring these to Bobby.  He’ll know more about how The Spirit manifest on Earth.”

“You want me to drive these eight hours away when you can just blip them there?”

“No,” Castiel explains.  He touches a hand to his temple. “I want you to drive Them eight hours away because the angels are coming. They’ve been looking for The Spirit.”

“Maybe they can help…”Sam starts, but Castiel cuts him off with a curt shake of his head. 

Castiel pauses.  He thinks about obedience and who he serves.  He makes a choice, perhaps the first in a chain that reaches forward through time toward the man he will become, but he makes it quickly.  In the future, when he wonders what choices set him on his path, he won’t remember this one.

“It’s not about helping, Sam.  The Spirit are an extension of God himself.”

“...And the angels want it--”

“Them.”

“The angels want  _ Them _ to consolidate their power,” Sam nods slowly to himself for a moment as he considers. “But then maybe it’ll leave Dean alone…” 

“Sam,” Castiel interrupts, “The Spirit chose Dean for a Reason.  Whatever the Reason may be, that won’t go away if The Spirit is removed.  The Spirit can’t create anything. They just...lift the veil. That thread will still run through Dean, with or without The Spirit, and I don’t know what would happen to Dean if They can’t finish Their purpose.” 

Sam steps back, hands placating, “Okay, okay...so I just take These and drive?  How does that keep the angels from finding out Dean is their source?”

“The pearls are just a symbol, a temporary manifestation.  But it’s been so long since The Spirit has manifested on the Earthly plane...I think they have alerted the angels to Their presence.  They’ll locate the pearls before they locate the source of the pearls.”

“You mean Dean.”

Castiel nods, “It will give him more time.”

The both look to Dean’s bed.  Dean’s face is flushed, his breath ragged.

Sam clears his throat, “He’ll...he’ll need something for his fever soon.  There are pills in the bathroom.  Just...read the label.”

Castiel grunts assent.

“Yeah.  Okay,”  He takes the ashtray full of pearls gingerly, as if they might burn him.  Castiel senses his discomfort at being trapped in a confined space with Them.  He doesn’t tell Sam that this is part of his plan, a last ditch effort to knock some sense into the man.  Sam goes through the motions of getting ready to leave, but Castiel can see his eyes linger on his brother.  

“Go,” Castiel says firmly. “I’ll watch over him.”

“Just…” Sam stutters, eyes held on Dean for a long moment. “Just tell him I’ll be back.”

Castiel opens his mouth, he’s about to ask why Sam would even need to say this, but before he can form the words Sam’s closed the door behind him, latching it quietly so he won’t wake his brother.


	16. Chapter 16

There are things Dean knows even if he can’t remember them.  He knows how his ribs got broken, even if he doesn’t remember it per se.  He certainly remembers enough to tell Sam to shut up about it any time it gets brought up.  And if someone asks, he can recite the story, or a story, like he’s reading it from a book.  But he doesn’t really remember it.

And he remembers the after--how his dad shows up and Bobby’s waiting with a shotgun, cocked and everything.

In the stories he’s told himself since then, he knows it’s his fault.  Maybe Bobby just had it when Dean’s laid up at his house for two weeks, or maybe it had been building, and Bobby was just tired of getting saddled with two kids that weren’t even his.  He makes up the details because he can’t remember them--because he won’t remember them.  All he knows is that before the ribs they sometimes get dropped at Bobby’s for a few weeks and Dean gets to play catch and feed Sam real food, but after the ribs Bobby’s holding a shotgun to John’s chest and then they leave and they don’t come back for years.

 

So it’s kind of a surprise when he sees Bobby outside the hospital room.  He definitely can’t remember this. There are X-rays and gesticulation and a short, middle-aged South Asian woman who may or may not be the doctor.  She’s doing a lot of nodding and pointing while Bobby runs his fingers against his beard and nods back.  Dean’s ribs feel like they are on fire, and he catches a glimpse of Sammy in the hall, he’s being quiet enough that the adults have probably forgotten about him, and that probably explains the pale face and his lips drawn into a fine line.  They make eye contact through the glass, but only for an instant.  Dean can’t tell who looks away first.

That’s when Bobby comes in, his face just as drawn and set and a ripple of fear goes through Dean, because Bobby is  _ pissed _ and Dean knows he won’t be able to get away, not with his ribs burning, taking half inhalations to cut the fire in his side.

It doesn’t take Bobby long to recognize Dean’s panic, although he doesn’t say anything and even on the outside, Dean doesn’t see any real change, but the guy pauses for half a second and when Dean looks back it’s just Bobby.  He relaxes incrementally, but not completely.  He saw the anger, he knows it’s there.

“That was a social worker,” Bobby says in his quiet way.

Dean lets his eyes slide downward and he gives a faint nod.  Enough to let Bobby know he heard him.

“She wanted to know why so many old breaks are showing up on your X-rays.  Something about boot prints on your ribs.”

In retrospect, Dean marvels at how Bobby can stay so nonchalant when they both know what he’s getting at and they both know what’s really going on.

“What’d you tell her?” Dean asks, eyes over Bobby’s shoulder, studying some bland hospital art with sudden intensity.

“I told her you play a lot of rugby.  That sometimes rugby players get into fights.”

Dean cocks a half smile, “She buy it?”

Bobby almost smiles back, Dean thinks, but his beard obscures the corners of his mouth, “You might want to bone up on your rugby rules in case she starts asking you questions, but yeah, she bought it.”

Dean clears his throat. Even that sparks the pain in his side, “Good.”

“She may have bought it, boy, but I’m no moron,” Bobby says, and his voice is still calm and his trucker cap mostly hides his eyes, but Dean still catches a glimpse of the fury behind them before he ducks his head.

“Yeah.  I know Bobby.”

Dean keeps his eyes down, watches his fingers as they run over the loosely woven fibers of his hospital blanket.  He tugs absently at the loose strands with the hand that’s not in a cast, tries not to react as Bobby walks across the room and pulls a chair next to the bedside.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Bobby asks as he settles in the chair.

“What do you want to know?” 

“What did this?” Bobby motions toward Dean’s side.

Dean doesn’t mean to hesitate, because he knows what to tell Bobby, and it’s not even a lie...not really.  All things considered, he doesn’t even hesitate that long, maybe a half-breath. Or two.  

“A monster,” Dean says and he ventures a look up, meets Bobby’s eyes and suddenly he knows that Bobby saw the hesitation, however brief.  And Bobby holds his gaze, squints his eyes around the edges when Dean tries to curl back in on himself, hand gently pushes Dean back against the pillows and Dean knows he knows.

“You can stay at my house,” Bobby offers finally.  Dean knows Bobby means long term.  Forever maybe.

“You know I can’t.  I can’t even ask...” Dean answers, his voice is barely a whisper.  He dips his head toward Sammy, still reading some nerdy book in the hallway.  Then he shifts his weight in a futile attempt to get more comfortable, and groans when he fails.

“You shouldn’t have to ask, boy” Bobby’s tone is cantankerous, but he hands Dean a pillow from God-knows where.

“I’m not a boy,” Dean mumbles, even as he takes the pillow, even as he lets Bobby help him roll onto his good side and sink into it for a few minutes before the nurse comes in and chews him out for it.

“You never were,” Bobby whispers and he lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder.  Maybe Dean never heard it when Bobby said it, or maybe he was too focused on the pain in his ribs to acknowledge it, but he hears it now.  Bobby leaves his hand on Dean’s shoulder as Dean fights sleep, and in retrospect Dean can see the set in the man’s face.  

Dean should have known just from that look that Dad shouldn’t have come back, but maybe he didn’t believe it, or maybe he just wasn’t ready to know.  It’s not that he didn’t think Bobby was fully capable and willing to rip John a new one...he just didn’t see why it would be worth the effort.  After all, John’s a good hunter. Half the reason Sam and Dean stay with Bobby so much is because Bobby’s always tossing their dad cases, especially ones he doesn’t trust other hunters to handle.  Ones that are too dangerous to bring kids along.

Dean never put the pieces together, not until he’s standing outside the memory, reliving it through some bizarre supernatural mojo that doesn’t even make sense, not until he’s come to know and love Bobby as grown man, but it finally makes sense.

“You sneaky bastard,” he says to a memory who can’t hear him.

A column of flame rises next to him and the flames lick out, caressing his rib, and God, they burn and the whole world tilts.

_ I don’t create anything new _ , a voice says,  _ I just show you what’s already there. _


End file.
